“What war?” she tittered. “Europe is tired, no one wants to fight.”

“You’re delusional,” Professor Cohen said. “Children fight over toys, men over territory.”

“Let’s not think about that right now,” said M. de Nerciat, eyeing me worriedly. He nabbed the Herald and opened to the society pages, where two full columns announced the news of Paris’s American Colony. “?‘Mr. Eli Grombecker, of New York, flew to Europe on the Clipper. Mr. and Mrs. E. Bromund, of Chicago, among those who visited Berlin recently, are at Le Bristol. Mrs. Minnie K. Oppenheimer and Miss Ruth Oppenheimer, of Miami, are at the Continental.’?”

“War won’t stop socialites from shopping,” Mr. Pryce-Jones said.

“And the news from the British Colony,” M. de Nerciat continued, “?‘the Maharaja of Tripuria and the Yuvaranee of Baria are at the George V. The Countess of Abingdon joined the Earl at Le Prince de Galles.’?”

My habitués and I laughed. The socialites took themselves so seriously, but allowed us to briefly forget the tense political situation.

After work, I went home, hoping for a letter from Rémy, but the tray on the entryway table remained empty. I heard voices in the sitting room and peeked in—Paul! Seeing me, he jumped up. Aware of my parents, I allowed my hand to briefly settle on his upper arm as he gave me a peck on the cheek.

On the divan, twenty centimeters apart, I whispered, “I missed you.”

“I missed you more. You had your habitués for company. Aside from my aunt, I had cows, chickens, and goats.”

“One could argue that Mr. Pryce-Jones is a stubborn old goat.”

“Yes, but he’s never bitten you!”

My father regarded us with smug benevolence. “I knew Paul was the one for you.”

“Yes, Papa, the fourteenth suitor you brought home was the charm.”

“Soon you’ll have more time together,” he replied. “With this talk of war, your colleagues will leave Paris, and the Library will close.”

“Miss Reeder says we’ll stay open,” I said. “No one’s going anywhere.”

“You’ll be able to rest.” With a teasing wink, he added, “Maybe you’ll even be on time for dinner.”

When Papa spoke of his job, he spoke of duty. He couldn’t understand that I loved the Library. The extra hours spent with Helen-in-reference to learn how to find answers for subscribers wasn’t a chore, it was a treasure hunt. “It’s important to remember how hard it is to ask for help,” she reminded me. “Never be impatient; all questions have value.” She and I dug through specialized bibliographies and encyclopedias to find everything from the population of Cuba to the estimated value of a Chinese vase. Every day brought questions that wanted answers. After writing dozens of academic papers, Professor Cohen decided to try her hand at a novel and was researching sixteenth-century Italy. “What did Venetians wear? What did they drink? What did they put in their pockets?” she asked.

“Are you sure they had pockets?” Helen asked.

“Not at all!” the professor replied, and we three set sail for Venice, navigating through the stacks.

I was needed at the Library. I was happy there.

“I can’t rest,” I told my father. “Miss Reeder says books promote understanding, which is important now more than ever.”

When he opened his mouth to argue, Maman ushered him from the room, closing the door behind them.

I moved closer to Paul. “He’s impossible!”

“He worries about you.”

“I suppose.…”

Paul kissed my hands, my cheeks, my lips. I wanted more. His skin on mine, our bodies entwined. Kissing was the prologue of a marvelous book, one I wanted to read until the end.

The doorknob rattled; we leapt apart. Maman rushed to the planters, where she watered her ferns.

When I was little, I’d loved to read in bed. Every evening, after Maman said, “Lights out,” I begged to finish the chapter, but it was no use. Maman, now as then, decided when it was time to stop.

* * *

AS I SET out the afternoon editions of the newspapers, I saw Miss Reeder—white as Gaylo glue—stumble into the reading room. Immediately, we all knew something was wrong. Mr. Pryce-Jones and M. de Nerciat stopped arguing. Professor Cohen looked up from her book. Standing in front of the shrouded windows, the Directress said, “The embassy called.” Her voice trembled. “England and France have declared war on Germany.”

When Papa spoke of his years in the trenches, I could only imagine the fighting as faded photos taken from a distance. Now, the pictures of tanks and wounded soldiers were in Technicolor. Was Rémy in combat? Was he injured?

“Did they say where the fighting is?” Bitsi asked before I could.

“I wish I knew more,” Miss Reeder said. “Ambassador Bullitt will keep us informed.”

After reassuring subscribers, she gathered staff in her office. “You should leave—back home, or to the countryside, where you’ll be safe,” she told us, her tone so authoritative that in my mind, I threw my yellow dress and blue scarf into a suitcase.

“What will you do?” stern Mrs. Turnbull demanded.

“I’ll remain,” Miss Reeder responded without hesitation.